


Я вас любил

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 16:09:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16726641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: Illya is resigned to the fact that things might never happen between Napoleon and him. The mere idea of ‘them’ seems crazy, yet, it doesn’t stop Illya from wanting it.





	Я вас любил

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bryonyashley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryonyashley/gifts).



> Hope you’re not bored by me yet. But here is another Napollya fic for you. Thank you to bryonyashley who always inspires me, one way or another, to write these two lovely spies. 
> 
> Note : My fic is unbetaed, so many apologies for any mistakes. :(

In Prague, Illya sits in his car and watches Napoleon together with their mark in a cafe across the street. He restlessly shifts in his seat every now and then, while his fingers tap on the steering wheel incessantly. The longer he sees Napoleon’s act, the more annoyed he gets. It is a miracle he has not done any damage to the car yet. He could rip the steering wheel off the dashboard, a truly tempting idea, but Illya manages to keep his temper in check. 

For a split second, his mind drifts. He thinks about giving Napoleon a piece of his mind once the mission ends. He ought to let the obnoxious man know how his blatant act is making him jealous. Illya lets out an inward groan. The truth is he would not give words to his thoughts, at best an angry scowl is all Napoleon would get in the end and he would continue to be clueless as to why Illya’s all angry at him for no apparent reason. 

Agitated, Illya looks away for a second or two and when his eyes fall on them again, Napoleon has ante up his act. He has leaned in, lips near the man’s ear whispering something that makes him smile and his hand coming up to capture Napoleon’s wrist across the small expanse of the table. The touch turns into a caress and he does not take his hand away after, leaving Illya seething. He grips the steering wheel hard. Illya loathes how their mark has fallen for the act, falls for Napoleon like a charm. And the more Illya wants to hate Napoleon for it, the more he realises that he really doesn’t.

 

***

 

In Rio, Napoleon has to get comfortable with another mark, much to Illya’s chagrin. His assignment is to get close to a wealthy, beautiful socialite while gaining her trust. Whatever information he could obtain from her would be vital for their mission. Illya, as Napoleon’s backup, spies on them with binoculars, grits his teeth when he sees them kissing. Not a minute ago they had been drinking and chatting, everything seeming plainly amiable. Now, Napoleon has got his arms around her and the woman is clambering all over him on that sofa like she can’t get enough of him.

“Sure, that will get her talking, Cowboy,” Illya grumbles quietly. 

How many times has he seen this act from Napoleon? Kissing people he does not really want to kiss? Or does he enjoy it, enjoys putting his lips on strangers who probably don’t even know how to kiss him properly? 

If Illya has the chance, he would show Napoleon how it is properly done. He would ensure the prelude to their kiss would be something Napoleon will not forget easily. He would hold Napoleon’s face in between his hands before sliding one around Napoleon’s nape. He would tilt his head back so he could look him in the eye while their breaths mingle, faces mere inches away. Illya imagines Napoleon’s heavy lidded eyes falling shut as his own lips descend on Napoleon’s. The first touch would send a shudder down his spine, would make his heart stop and when the kiss intensifies, his world would stop spinning. A simple kiss yet the effect of it mind blowing, any other kisses for Napoleon from anyone else after, ruined forever. 

This is what Illya wants to do. The realisation does not shock him although he is frightened how much his want for Napoleon has grown without him having any control of it. 

 

***

 

In Paris, while on a dangerous mission, something happens that finally opens Illya’s eyes.

Napoleon gets injured on their assignment and while helping him tend to his wounds, Illya realises his attraction for Napoleon goes beyond anything physical, goes above everything he has ever felt for anyone. When he had seen that knife being plunged deep into Napoleon’s shoulder, when he had seen all that blood on his shirt and him falling to the ground, Illya’s heart had stopped. And he could not think of anything else at that moment other than to get Napoleon to safety.

Now, back in their hotel room, Illya stays by his side and watches over him as he drifts in and out of consciousness. Whenever Napoleon shifts and groans restlessly, Illya is quick to reassure him that everything will get better.

“You care too much for me” is what Napoleon mumbles when Illya scolds him for being careless, but Illya ignores the flutter in his stomach when Napoleon adds, “but I care for you too, Peril. Maybe more than you ever know.”

When Napoleon finally sleeps, Illya gently threads his fingers through Napoleon’s curls and lets out a defeated sigh. He knows now why he gets easily jealous and angry whenever Napoleon has to get cosy with their marks. 

Illya is in love with him.

Despite this, he is resigned to the fact that things might never happen between them. The mere idea of ‘them’ seems crazy, yet, it does not stop Illya from wanting it. It does not stop him from imagining scenes after scenes in his head. Of them together. Illya sees how he would comfort Napoleon whenever he gets hurt, sees him holding Napoleon when he is having nightmares, arms curled around his shoulders while pressing soothing kisses on his forehead, on his face. Napoleon would seek his lips, demanding more. Sometimes Illya imagines Napoleon underneath him, pliant and wanting. He imagines making love to him. 

Illya wishes he could tell Napoleon the truth. So he could trade his empty nights when he lies alone in bed, chasing his dreams of having Napoleon in his arms. But if he does this, would it drive Napoleon away? Would it ruin their friendship that has taken time to build? 

Illya does not want to chance it. So he continues to only dream. Though it gets harder with each waking night.

 

***

 

In London, Illya finally has it all figured out. 

Napoleon, assigned to a lone mission, has been away from him for a month. And the entire time they have been apart, Illya could not stop fretting he might never get to see Napoleon again. All sorts of unsavoury thoughts comes to his mind; of Napoleon injured, getting taken and tortured, and the worst of all, images of him dead. And it is all because Illya isn’t there with him. Isn’t there _for him._

But that morning, when Illya steps into their shared office and sees Napoleon sitting behind his desk with that smile that could make his heart stop, Illya breathes a sigh of relief. Napoleon has returned. And Illya knows what needs to be done. He needs to tell Napoleon the truth because it cannot wait any longer. 

But it is Napoleon that surprises him then when he hands Illya a wrapped gift before he could say anything.

“I saw this in a shop and I had to get it for you.”

“A present?”

Napoleon’s smile does not relent. “Open it.”

With a tiny nod, Illya wordlessly unwraps his gift and his heart thumps when he sees what is inside. It is a book of Russian poetry. 

“Poetry?” Illya asks, bemused.

“Open the page where it’s bookmarked,” Napoleon says and Illya looks up at him with widened eyes when he sees the title of the marked poem.

_Я вас любил._

Illya’s hands shake. The frustration of keeping everything he has been feeling for Napoleon shifts into confusion, and his heart begins to pound painfully in his chest. Napoleon cannot be this cruel, can he? Had he, somehow, read Illya’s mind? 

“Is this…a joke?” 

Napoleon shakes his head, eyes all serious. “Not on this.”

He sounds sure and Illya eyes fall onto the poet’s words.

_“I loved you; perhaps love has not yet quite gone out in my soul, but let it no longer trouble you: I don’t want to sadden you in the smallest way. I loved you silently, hopelessly, tormented now by timidity, now by jealousy; I loved you so sincerely, so tenderly, as God grant you may be loved by a man.”_

Illya leans against his own desk as he tries to process what he had just read. He grips the book in one hand, but his other is now suddenly being gripped by Napoleon’s. He isn’t aware when Napoleon had moved from his seat, isn’t aware how he is now standing right in front of him. 

“I have loved you for a long time,” Napoleon mutters, voice small but earnest. “So, this is no joke. Not to me, at least.”

“Why?” Illya chokes. “Why now?”

“Finally found my courage after being away from you?”

Illya stares at him, realises he has missed looking into the light in Napoleon’s eyes. He silently thinks _“this is what I’ve been wanting. This is what I’ve been waiting for.”_ The poem is just a metaphor of Napoleon’s feelings for him, his way of admitting how he feels, and how apt it is that he had found a way to confess it through a Russian poetry.

There is silence for a while until Illya hears Napoleon calling his name.

“Tell me I have not made a mistake?”

Illya draws in a sharp breath. “No mistake,” he murmurs.

The next thing he knows, Napoleon has moved in closer, close enough to kiss. Illya shifts in surprise, but then his hands are already curling around Napoleon’s nape, fingers digging into his hair, even if Napoleon is pressing him back against his desk. When their lips touch, Illya forgets everything else. His world is concentrated on Napoleon, narrowed into the sensation of their kiss. Illya hears a low moan, is it him or is it Napoleon, he could not tell, but _God_ , this is what he wants, and nothing has ever felt so right. His arms find their way tighter around Napoleon’s waist, and as Napoleon kisses him harder, Illya’s reality finally falls into place. 

Napoleon is his and will always be his. And this is how it should always be.

**Author's Note:**

> Title of fic is borrowed from a Russian poetry, ‘Я вас любил’ which translates to I Loved You.
> 
> Note : Russian poetry is famous for its love lyrics, but, when asked about the greatest among them, everybody unhesitatingly names Pushkin’s Я вас любил (“I Loved You,” 1830)


End file.
